


The Emeralds of Girion

by Evandar



Series: The Kings of the North [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Interspecies Romance, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:19:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2792927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The emerald necklace of Girion is an heirloom of Bard's house, which means that it's his to give to whoever he pleases. Giving it to Thranduil in friendship rather than to the Master in taxes, however, may have consequences he hadn't foreseen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Emeralds of Girion

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Hobbit Reverse Bang 2014 on Tumblr, and inspired by the art of Lynndyre.

It was Tilda's gasp that alerted him to the presence behind him. The Elvenking had entered silently - he hadn't even heard the tent flap move - and he was dressed more plainly than Bard had imagined he had the clothes for. Gone was the armour and the elaborate silver jewellery he had worn at the meeting with King Fili; it its place was a simple green tunic, and his hair hung loose save for the braids which held it back from his face. The style revealed his ears more prominently, made his eyes look bigger and bluer, and had Bard not spent the day sneaking glimpses of him, he would have thought Thranduil to be a common Elf and not a king. 

"Forgive me my intrusion," Thranduil said. His voice was as deep and calm as it had been during the meeting, but Bard suspected that the serenity was more genuine this time. A suspicion only: Thranduil was nearly impossible to read, what with his sudden invitations and invasions, and his pale, mask-like face. 

They had exchanged only the simplest of conversations all day, and here he was in Bard's tent as if he had every right to be there. 

The arrogance of kings was something Bard had had quite enough of for the day, but he had also glimpsed Thranduil with a sword in his hand, hunting on the battlefield, and had no desire to test his reflexes. 

"Of course, King Thranduil," he said. "May I offer you a drink?"

"Wine if you have it, though I do not intend to remain long," was the reply. "I am come only to return your property."

Suddenly aware of his daughter's insatiable curiosity, combined with the fascination she was currently showing in Thranduil's slender form, he sighed and shook his head. "Outside, Tilda," he said. 

"But Da-"

"Now. Go and find your brother and sister and tell them supper is on the go."

She pouted, but quailed, and skipped from the tent, pausing only long enough to glance back from the flap and study Thranduil a little more before his glare had her ducking away. When he turned his attention back to the king, he found the Elf smiling. 

"If she is anything like Legolas, she will be trying to listen for as long as her ears can allow - and make slower progress to sate her curiosity," he said. 

Bard blinked. The name Legolas was familiar, though he did not believe he had met the Elf attached to it. "Your child?" He guessed. 

Thranduil nodded once and plucked at the hem of his tunic with long fingers. "His clothing, in case your _own_ curiosity was getting the better of you."

So Thranduil didn't have common clothes of his own after all - somehow, Bard had thought that might be the case. 

"You said you had business with me," he said. There was not a drop of wine in the tent to be had, so there was little point in observing niceties further. 

"Ah, yes," Thranduil replied, and from a hidden pocket, he drew out a necklace Bard had only seen once in his life. "An heirloom of your family, passed to me, and yet for what? You have daughters who might find pleasure in wearing it, or a son who might pass it to his children."

"And a Master who would take it in taxes before the foundations for Esgaroth were finished being laid," Bard finished. "In your hands, it's safely away from his."

It was so easy to blame the Master, and not even entirely a lie to do so. But he'd far rather lay the blame there than admit to the perverse desire that had laid claim to him in that meeting room: the desire to have Thranduil look at him. 

He was certainly looking now, and Bard shifted so that the makeshift table was between them, and tried not to look too hard at his eyes just in case the Elf really could read minds. 

"Think of it as payment," he said, "for what you're doing for my people."

"I require no such payment," Thranduil murmured, and Bard sighed in relief when he finally looked away, down at the necklace that glittered in his hand. Its chain was tangled in his long fingers; emeralds the colour of the forest canopy shone with fire in the lamplight. Bard tried to imagine it around Sigrid's neck, or Tilda's, and failed. His girls were beauties like their mother had been, but the Elvenking outshone the stars. 

"If it is truly your wish, then I will accept it as a gift from a friend," he said, "for I wish to consider us as such. But -" he paused to look up, and something about the expression on his face, the quirk of his lips or the glint in his eyes, made Bard suspect that 'Legolas' had not come about his mischievous nature entirely on his own "- should you wish me to have it, I would bid you to aid me in wearing it."

Bard stopped breathing. For a moment, time stood still and all he could hear was his own heartbeat, even over the hissing of the pot on the fire and the clatter of the camp beyond canvas walls. But then, he realised that he was moving, and he came back to himself as he lifted the necklace from Thranduil's hand. 

He untangled it gently. For a moment, it had been the most valuable thing in his possession, yet he had no attachment to it. Rather, he had the sneaking suspicion that more would come of him giving it up than he could have anticipated. For example, the Elvenking turning his back to him and lifting the long fall of his hair out of the way. 

There was no going back from this. 

Carefully, gently, in a movement he hadn't thought to perform again after his wife had sold the last of her treasures to support their growing family, he fastened the emeralds of Girion about Thranduil's slender throat. His fingers brushed the back of Thranduil's neck; the skin was soft and smooth, and Thranduil shivered under his touch, and Bard felt his mouth turn dry. 

More than anticipated indeed.


End file.
